


Birthdays

by Easterngate



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21547951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Easterngate/pseuds/Easterngate
Summary: Anthony had never hated any day more than his birthday. He was also born on the twelfth, though he thought of the day less holy and more cursed. He would rip the whole month off the calendar if only it would erase the day. No matter how old he got it felt like a sharp needle, a painful reminder of his past and all that was expected of him. Begrudgingly, though, he had to admit the day had one thing going for it.Anthony's never really liked birthdays. Aziraphale's never really had one.Inspired by mostweakhamlets cult au on Tumblr.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	Birthdays

When he was born there was a heavy downpour beating into the wooden roof above their heads. There were no doctors, not in the traditional sense, but midwives were trained from a young age to assist in this holy miracle. His six biological siblings attended to their mother while their brothers in spirit sat with hands clasped tight in the chapel. They whispered behind closed eyes and folded hands that perhaps it was a bad omen as thunder shook the boards. But when the rain cleared, a rainbow shined onto the building as a new voice cried within.

When he was born lightning streaked the sky in flashes. Three days early, his mother had been given something in hopes it would induce labor. They whispered it was a sign, one hundred years to the day. The thunderstorm was seen as an omen, a blessing from Crowley's spirit. He blinked open eyes that were yellowish green, a color none of them had ever witnessed before, with pupils jagged and not quite round. That was it. The signs were overwhelming, it had to be him. Crowley had chosen his new vessel, and Horus's prophet had been reincarnated.

He was named Aziraphale, the seventh of twelve. The leaders were named for the Archangels, an assertion of divine right. Eldest were bestowed a title from the texts. He was neither, just another face among the troops. He was given the honorary -ale to signify he was "of the angels" and entrusted to the care of his eldest sibling, Uriel, who looked down at him, a slight look of disgust on her face.

He was named Anthony James Crowley after the great man himself. Eldest of four, though he would never know. He, like all children, was entrusted to the leaders a week after his birth. His eyes signifying his birthright, he was kept separate from the children, raised by elders who looked to him like he had all the answers.

He was seventeen when he left for the last time, three months after his birthday on a sunny August day. An ultimatum had been put before him: either his family or his schooling. They hoped the bonds he shared with his siblings would be enough to dissuade him from leaving. When he first doubted, they believed sending him outside to school would show him the true horrors of the outside. When he read of earthly wars and diseases and famine, then he would see the flaws of the world and be more prepared for his ultimate ascension and calling. But he found happiness in the laughter of the pupils, true concern and compassion in his teachers. Though his books taught of sorrow and pain, they ended with joy and hope. For a while Aziraphale tried to balance the two, but his siblings ridiculed him for his interests, and the Archangels grew worried of his outside focus. When he received a full scholarship to a university, they put their foot down. Said if he was welcome to leave, but he would be unable to use their resources. Unable to come back, unable to see the siblings he had left behind. Never see his younger siblings, who he had helped feed and clothe and teach. There were tears in his eyes and though he thought about it often during his first month, he did not return.

He was seventeen when he left, never looking back through the blustery October darkness. A week before his birthday, he told the priests ahead of time that no sign was coming this year. That he had received a message from spirits beyond and would be fully incarnated when he turned eighteen, the year he became a man (the fact that he was not technically a man had yet to be contested, though looking back he doubted the leaders would care). He was still required to attend the yearly ceremonies, but they took him at his word, relaying the information to followers. They did not beseech Crowley or Horus to give them a sign of his birthright, and for that he was thankful. Every year they asked, and every year he failed to present anything. When the night ended he asked for a week of solitude to prepare his vessel for the upcoming year. The elders granted this, and on the fifth night he stole from the camp during evening devotions and vowed if he returned, he would burn the whole place to the ground. 

Aziraphale's birthdays never were much. He barely had one, truth be told. He estimated by Uriel's accounts that he was born in May, though the exact date was lost to history. Birthdays reminded them that they aged, of how human they were. Aziraphale had to create one when he began schooling, He chose the twelfth because it was an auspicious number. He felt truly seen as his class sang to him and his first teacher, knowing he would not receive it at home, slid him a slice of cake after class.

Anthony had never hated any day more than his birthday. He was also born on the twelfth, though he thought of the day less holy and more cursed. He would rip the whole month off the calendar if only it would erase the day. No matter how old he got it felt like a sharp needle, a painful reminder of his past and all that was expected of him. Begrudgingly, though, he had to admit the day had one thing going for it. 

Aziraphale had been going to the support group for two years, after a university friend had seen a flyer and gently suggested it. A support group for people who used to be in cults. It had replaced his usual Sunday ritual of attending church and feeling immense guilt over leaving, something he was later told was an unhealthy habit. He didn't really speak much, just watching his hands on his lap as he listened, but he looked up when he heard the door accidentally slam shut.

Anthony didn't want to be here, he really didn't, a point that was only made more clear as eleven faces turned to him because the bloody door couldn't be quiet even when he asked it to. He accidentally made eye contact with one, a blonde man around his own age, before looking away quickly, stuffing his hands in his jeans and trying not to blush. He didn't want to be here, should be out finding the cheapest pub and getting drunk, but according to several friends "that's not how you handle problems." He had seen the flyer on the way to the bar, and god this was a mistake wasn't it? Anthony wanted to go, but it was too late, so he sat down in one of the few available seats.

He hadn't meant to talk, was only going to sit in, but after a few minutes Anthony found himself explaining how he was "chosen," how every year he was supposed to perform some sign, some miracle or whatever proving his birthright. He didn't talk much about how he was screamed at and isolated and punished when he couldn't, but from their faces it was clear they could infer.

"Bastards!" whispered the blonde boy next to him, before hastily covering his mouth with his hands, scandalized. "Apologies, I-"

Anthony waved him away. "Nah, you're right. They were right assholes." They shared a sad kind of smile before turning back to the bigger group.

He stayed long enough to help fold up chairs, not ready to walk back into the rest of the world quite yet. The cute _(shut up Anthony, god that's just like you, latching on to anyone who shows you the slightest kindness)_ guy from earlier did sidled up next to him nervously. "I just wanted to say thanks. For what you said earlier. I'm Aziraphale." He held out his hand in greeting.

"What, for calling your family a bag of dicks?" He chuckled. "They deserve it. You shouldn't have to be scared of your family. Anthony."

He held out his hand in response. Aziraphale shook it, but his eyes didn't leave Anthony's face, studying him as if he were trying to find something below the surface. "Would you like to get some ice cream? There's a place not far from here that stays open late."

His next birthday, instead, was not a blessing. Falling on a Monday, he was not sitting between eleven other people at a support group he only half wanted to be at. Instead, Anthony found himself stumbling through London with shattered glasses and a broken nose, covered with grime and a little blood. He had been there a couple of times since he had first met the adorable man a year ago, but never alone, never without Aziraphale to guide him. Stumbling up to what he could only hope was the right door Anthony knocked, leaning gently against the frame as he did so. At least his jacket made it through alright, though the loss of his sunglasses was truly tragic. They had been with him since he was ten, when the elders had finally had enough of him complaining about migraines and light sensitivity and decided to do something about it. Anthony sighed, mourning their loss and running a hand through matted hair as the door opened.

"Anthony?" Aziraphale asked, rubbing his eyes. It was running rather late, must be if Aziraphale's matching flannel pajamas were anything to go by. Anthony swayed unsteadily in the door and Aziraphale caught him, ushering him inside. "Come in! What's happened to you? Are you alright?"

"Hmmmm fine yeah..." Anthony mumbled, letting Aziraphale lead him inside. "It's nothing. Got in a bit of a disagreement. 'm fine angel." 

Aziraphale lead him through the apartment to a small dining area, pulling out a chair for Anthony to sit in. "Stay here. I'll grab a first aid kit."

Aziraphale ran to the bathroom for supplies leaving Anthony alone. He opened his fist slowly and stared down at the remaining pieces of his sunglasses. _Stupid sunglasses, stupid eyes, stupid cult, stupid fucking Aleister Crowley and his goddamn birthday._ He threw the pieces at the nearest wall where they hit with a satisfying crunch. Anthony sighed, leaning forward to rest is arms and head on the table. He had just wanted to get drunk, maybe pick someone up. Why couldn't he catch a fucking break?

"Sit up," Aziraphale nudged gentlyas he returned, setting a first aid kit on the table along with a damp washcloth and a bag of frozen vegetables. He held Anthony's chin gently and tilted it so he could get a better view. The bleeding looked like it had stopped, though the area was covered with dried blood and swollen. "What happened to you my dear?" Aziraphale asked, gently dabbing Anthony's face with a washcloth to clean the blood. Anthony sighed.

"Was out at a bar flirting with this guy. He told me I should take off my sunglasses, that he bet I had 'beautiful eyes.' Hesitated and he reached up to take them off for me. Might have accidentally punched him." Anthony wasn't sure when he closed his eyes but he didn't dare open them now. Had Aziraphale seen his eyes? He had talked about them, sure, at group, maybe even in private, but had he ever taken his glasses off in front of him? Anthony couldn't remember. It was rare that he removed them. Either lights were too bright or they startled people. As it was they really only came off right before bed, or occasionally in a dark theater. Anthony squeezed his eyes tighter. Would have looked away if Aziraphale wasn't holding him steady. _Let's show up tipsy with a bloody nose and give the man helping a heart attack!_ No, he decided. He didn't want to freak him out.

Anthony winced as Aziraphale pressed a little too hard with the washcloth, turning away slightly. Aziraphale directed him back lightly with his thumb, steering his chin so they were facing again. "Well that certainly explains the broken glasses." He drew back, deciding Anthony's face was clean enough, and handed him the bag of frozen corn. "For your nose. I'm afraid I don't have an ice pack." Anthony blinked open his eyes enough to take the bag and place it over his nose, trying his best not to make eye contact. Aziraphale paused, then, "Why are you so filthy?" 

Anthony smiled, but it was all sneer no joy. "Bartender threw us out. My friend wasn't amused with what I did to him. Decided he would like to continue our brawl outside." The coldness stung but he ignored it, focusing instead on Aziraphale's fingers roaming his head in search of other cuts. It felt nice. He thought about leaning into the hand, but decided best not. He liked the angel, had since the evening they met, but. Well, they were friends. Anthony so rarely came by those.

"Well, why don't I see if I have anything that will fit you. You can take a bath and sleep in my room for the night. I'll sleep on the couch." Aziraphale very much doubted he had anything that would fit. Anthony stood a whole head taller than him and was a good bit skinnier as well. Anything he found would show at least three inches of ankle and hang loose in the waist. Still, surely he could find something that was good enough.

Aziraphale turned to go search for clothes, but Anthony grabbed his sleeve before he could. "I can take the couch you know. I've already put you out enough.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He knew Anthony would, wouldn't want to be an inconvenience. But what kind of host would that make him? Not to mention that he suspected Anthony was injured more than he was telling. He should stay close in case anything happened. "Why don't I grab blankets and we both sleep in the living room? I've never had a sleep over before. I hear they can be quite fun."

Anthony smiled, the first true, genuine smile he had all night.. "Sure angel. Sounds like a plan. We can stay up and play truth or dare. Talk about all the boys we have crushes on." Anthony stood and stretched, wincing at the cracks and creaks his bones made when he moved. His body never was in great shape, and between the fight and sleeping on the couch he knew he'd be sore in the morning. Maybe he should look in the mirror while he was in there. Make sure he didn't need Aziraphale to patch him up any more than he already had. "Right then. I'll go get cleaned up."

"You know..." Aziraphale said as Anthony walked away. He was quiet, enough that Anthony still heard him but he could still pretend he hadn't. "As rude as that man might have been, he was quite right. Your eyes are rather lovely."

Anthony tried to the blush creeping up his neck as he continued toward the bathroom.

Aziraphale didn't say anything, not outright, but Anthony had learned very quickly that as much as he abhorred birthdays, Aziraphale loved his. No acknowledgment of one and Aziraphale pouted for a week before finally apologizing, saying he was out of sorts. Anthony learned this the hard way, vowed he wouldn't do it again. He knocked firmly against the door that had become more familiar than his own, bouncing from side to side anxiously as he waited for it to open. 

He could hear noises behind the door, and after a few minutes of puttering around Aziraphale finally opened the door. "Anthony! What a surprise. Do come in, I'm just getting finished getting dressed." It wasn't a surprise, not at all, but it was a routine they had established. Aziraphale's socked feet padded against carpet as his fingers worked carefully on his bowtie. Anthony couldn't help but smile and not blush, _definitely not_ at his state of undress.

"Hey angel. Got any plans today?" Knew he didn't, always kept his birthday open for them. "Figured we could go out, wander the town. Take the tube down to the British Library?"

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. He had something up his sleeve, he was sure of it. Had dressed up even. Well, dressed up for him. No ripped jeans, no band shirt, had even forgone his usual leather jacket. Though he mourned the usual pins and patches, he did look quite lovely today. And the lack of jacket showed off his tattoos nicely. "You're up to something aren't you? Wily thing. Still I have been meaning to see their copies of DaVinci's notebooks. Let me just grab my shoes." _You look lovely,_ he wanted to tell him, bit back on his lips. It had been almost five years since they had met. He had thought he were lovely then too. Had thought he were lovely every day since. "There we are," he said, smoothing down his lapels. Aziraphale locked the door behind the two of them before offering Anthony his elbow. "Shall we?" he asked, the very picture of a Victorian gentleman.

Anthony held his elbow tightly and led him to the nearest tube station. It was a Monday, early, and the platform was crowded from the work commute. They stood in the center, Anthony holding a post tightly in one hand, the other wrapped around Aziraphale's waist. He had learned quickly that his angel was rather unsteady on his feet when it came to the jerky starts and stops of the train, and it wouldn't do to have him toppling over. As the car stopped, Anthony paused and removed the hand around Aziraphale's waist, reaching into his skirt to pull out a battered MP3 player. He offered one headphone to Aziraphale who looked skeptically at it before putting it in his ear.

The MP3 shuffled though a couple of songs, Anthony skipping over the louder more aggressive ones, knowing Aziraphale wouldn't be thrilled. They hopped off at Kings Cross and walked the last block or two to the library. Aziraphale tried his best to keep the smile off his face as crossed the empty courtyard, but when he glanced sideways and saw the sun on Anthony's hair. Well. _Today_ he promised himself. _Not now, but today._ Anthony followed patiently as Aziraphale meandered through the exhibit part.

"Oh, I do wish I could have met him! Of course his artwork is simply marvelous, don't get me wrong, but his writings, his inventions! How many do you think he tested in his lifetime? Surely not enough of course, but..."

Anthony smiled, squinting into the glass and lifting his glasses slightly the designs, the flying machines, they were incredible. Resembled a modern helicopter in a way. His eyes blurred against the words. "Angel? Either my vision is getting worse or this is complete gibberish."

"Hmmmm? Oh, darling. No, he wrote backwards see? To keep people from reading them. Quite remarkable, honestly-" Aziraphale paused, then looked at Anthony who was still squinting through the display case trying to decipher letters. He wasn't exactly the best reader as is, and this backwards stuff barely resembled letters. He could see DaVinci laughing at him from beyond the grave. Stupid prick. "I'm boring you, aren't I?" Aziraphale's voice was soft, considerate. "You know, I was debating taking a study room and perhaps looking at some texts, but… maybe we should try somewhere else instead."

"Whatever you like angel!" _I would do anything for you, go anywhere, listen to you talk for hours._ "It's your birthday. Don't worry about me."

"...well. I think Shakespeare's folio is just over there. Maybe a quick peek and we can pop over to the Wellcome?" Excitement sparked in his eyes, hopeful, wanting. 

"Sure angel."

The Wellcome had an exhibit which featured some Keith Haring paintings Anthony loved. They wandered through art and history for a while, pointing, talking excitedly, backs of hands brushing, asking silent questions. Anthony's eyes glazed over a bit while looking at an exhibit on psychology and magic and Aziraphale bounded up, excitedly dragging him to a new room, distracting him from the past. Around three the pair began to wind down, so they found a bench in the park across the way.

"Figured we could find somewhere nearby for dinner." Anthony wasn't looking at him, fingers struggling to braid hair he couldn't see. "Then um-" he coughed, pointedly not looking at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled. "You do have something up your sleeve. Cunning thing. Here, let me get your hair." His hands gently turned Anthony away so he could reach his head. Fingers ran through until it was all just ringlets, then began redividing hair. "You know," he started quietly after a minute or two of silence. "I've had quite an excellent day. And I was- I was wondering if you wouldn't like doing more of this?" He let the routine motion of weaving soft hair calm him as he exhaled. _There. Did it._

"Angel, we see each other every other day. Not sure how much more we could do without moving in together."

Aziraphale's face went bright red, he was lucky Anthony couldn't see. _Move in together_ . Maybe he wasn't as prepared for this conversation as he thought he was. No, no he could do it. "I was thinking more- Anthony, would you perhaps like to go steady?" _Deep breath_ . _Don't move don't say anything, don't break the moment._

Anthony whipped around so fast it flung his hair out of Aziraphale's hands. _Steady. Steady._ "Sorry, I just- You mean like date? With me and you and-" He was short circuiting, had to be. Needed to jumpstart his brain. His body surged forward. _No! Abandon ship!_ But before he could help it Anthony had pressed his mouth against soft lips. "Sorry! No, should have asked! I mean yes. I mean-" _Shut the fuck up, stop putting your foot in your mouth. Deep breath._ "I would like to go out with you. If it's still an option."

Aziraphale's eyes were wide from shock, but slowly grew into a gentle grin. "Well! That's settled then. I was wondering- could we perhaps try that again? I do think I'd rather enjoy it. Kissing." _Was it getting warm?_ Anthony smiled.

"One condition. Would you like to accompany me to see Hamlet this evening? Be my date?"

"Oh darling. You know very well that I'd love to."


End file.
